Patchwork Pieces

My Grandma Montgomery made quilts. Her bedroom and dining room were filled with piles of colorful fabrics all cut out in small pieces. It was like a country garden with no obvious plan of design. Rarely did she buy any fabric, for her family and friends kept her supplied. There was a piece from Aunt Irene's last sewing Aunt Nita's latest housedress, and Aunt Nelda's apron scraps were there. My mother was always looking through the pile of remnants at Samuelson's Dry Goods Store for a pretty piece for 'Mama.' A quarter of a yard was all it took to guarantee a good representation in Grandma's latest artistic endeavor.
     My writing is like Grandma's quilt-making. I put my thoughts down on anything available: the backs of receipts, napkins, paper towels, even an occasional piece of yellow-lined paper. There are scraps from friends and family, from books read, movies seen, and experiences. My mind is a veritable garden of ideas, all colorfully stacked all over the place, waiting to be cut into the appropriate shape and 'sewed' into a piece. I call them "Patchwork Pieces."
     I'd like to start sharing them. Here's one of my first:
     My sister had asthma when we were growing up, and as sorry as I felt for her, and as glad as I was that I didn't have it, I would sometimes long to be ill. My illness would be very rare, not disfiguring, painful, nor fatal. It would be mysterious, and I would lie on my bed, covered with silk comforters. The doctors would stand by consoling my parents. "There, there," they would say, "she's nearing the crisis point now."
     My mother would weep softly, and my father would clench his jaw to contain himself. My sister would regret all the things she'd done to anger and hurt me. My termperature would begin to rise, the room would hush, and all would wait expectantly as I went through the crisis.
     I always recovered, and the only evidence of my brave adventure was that I would be left with big boobs and long eyelashes.

#####

And another:

     I was having dinner with a young friend, laughing and talking when she interrupted me. "You are a remarkable woman," she said.

     "I am?" a note of disbelief was evident in my voice.

     She nodded slowly, and for a brief moment I saw myself through her eyes. I am!

     We are like beautiful tapestries to the world, intricte patterns woven out of a variety of threads, each of us distinctly unique. Some of us are like pale delicate Flemish tapestries, others like the rough natural macrames, some are art pieces, some warm fuzzy blankets. But we all, banker or boozer, are that beautiful work of original art.

     The only problem is that we see others' finished pieces right-side-out. All we can see of our own is the underside; the knots, twisted threads, cut-end pieces, patched and worn spots, and we need loved ones around to remind us of how we really are. In order for that tapestry to exist it needs both sides. That's a law in the universe.

#####

I've got a bunch of these, so you'll see them now and again.

Marmalade Memories

My friend Len gave me a bag of oranges and lemons. He likes to shop at Costco as he says the quality of the produce is the best. However, he and his wife Judi can never eat it all, so every time we meet for lunch, Len gives me a bag of stuff. I don't mind.

I decided to make marmalade. As I was slicing the oranges and lemons, I thought about Dick. (I'll explain the connection eventually.)
During my senior year at the University in Minneapolis, my parents and sister moved to Shorewood, a suburb of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. After graduation, I accepted a job in Fond du Lac, a small town in central Wisconsin. Every weekend I took the train to Milwaukee to visit my parents and let my Mother feed me. My sister (Mary Ann) was attending a local college and had made friends. Every weekend Mary Ann and her boyfriend arranged a blind date for me. I can't remember any of them.   But on Friday, September 13th we were to meet my date after the local high school football game. I wore my Minnesota sweatshirt, wool slacks, and my favorite gummy-soled blue suede shoes (really!). During the half-time, we left our seats and started to walk past the bleachers. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw this handsome fellow wearing a camel hair jacket and red tie. He came up to us and began talking to me. With as nasty a tone as I could muster, I said, "I don't believe we've met," and I walked away. He turned to Mary Ann's boyfriend and said, "That's the girl I'm going to marry." And marry me he did.

It was 1946 and Dick was freshly out of the service. He'd entered the Marines shortly after December 7th, 1942, while still a senior in high school. At seventeen he needed to get his parents permission and the approval of high school to get an early diploma. He did both tasks.

Dick had been an altar boy and an Eagle Scout (at the time, the youngest in the state of Wisconsin).

He was smart, ambitious, and had a wicked sense of humor. Who else but a young man in love would have done this.....

He never lacked for friends. People just loved him. But to get back to the marmalade...It was Fall and I had been canning. Tomatoes, peaches, apricots, and applesauce. I had made apple butter and several kinds of jam. To make all the pickles on my list, I had bought a bag of salt. We --just Dick and me--were going away for the weekend to visit our friend Big John. A big treat for me.

He was Big John (at 6'2" compared to our John) and he loved marmalade. I found a competent baby sitter --not easy for our bunch, as Doug was only 4 months old, Bill one and a half, Mary three, and John five.

I spent the morning slicing oranges and lemons, making sure the rinds were as thin as possible. Dick interrupted me on his way out to the backyard. "Honey, I emptied the sugar and filled the bowl." I was grateful for any kind of help. I got out my speical rectangular pan--it fit over two burners--and dumped in the oranges, lemons, and about 8 cups of sugar and began to stir. Another interruption when John came into the kitchen. He was hungry, but said he could take care of it himself. He put cereal into a bowl, poured in milk, and added sugar. "This cereal tastes funny," he said. I was too busy to be concerned about his personal taste for cereal as I was having a terrible time with my marmalade. No matter how much it bubbled and boiled, nor how long I stirred, I couldn't get the sugar to melt. "Mom," John insisted. "There's something wrong with the cereal." My response was not as sweet or patient as it should have been. I was now really concerned about my marmalade. "Tastes salty," John said.

     Salty? Oh no! I tasted the marmalade. Salty. Dick had never seen salt in a bag. He was so sorry. "It's kind of funny," he said. "Not to me," I replied. "Not now. Give me a little time." He disappeared into the bedroom. I sank into a chair and tried not to cry.

     A short time later, they came slowly walking by, Dick, John, Mary, and Bill. All were wearing coats and hats and looking sad. Dick picked up the rectangular pan and said, "We're having services in the back yard." And they did.

     All of that happened so long ago, but as I stirred my pan of oranges, lemons, and sugar the memories were as yesterday.

Christmas Stories

There's the well known Christmas story recorded in the Book of Luke that we all know. But at Christmastime I like to think about my family and their stories.

The Christmas we lived in Minneapolis, Dick decided on Christmas Eve we should take a drive to see the Christmas lights. We all thought that a great idea, but we had a problem. Doug (7 months old) was taking a nap, and I had cooking and baking to do to get ready for our Christmas dinner.
After some discussion we arrived at a compromise. I'd stay home with Doug and they'd go on the drive, but they had to promise to tell me all about it when they returned. All agreed. Dick took John, Mary, and Bill on the drive. Doug and I stayed home.

Shortly after they left, Doug woke and I put him in his "bouncer" in the living room so he could see our Christmas tree. It was a tall one covered with lights and ornaments. I went back into the kitchen. Several times I heard him laugh out loud, but I wasn't surprised. He was a happy baby and laughed a lot.
About an hour later, Dick and the children came home. To everyone's surprise, Santa had been there. After all the boxes were opened and we were sitting about basking in all our loot, John went up to Doug. "You saw him," John said, "and you're too little to talk." Doug just smiled.




The year we lived in Atlanta, I decided to take the children to the big Sears store down town. I had just gotten my first car--a rattle-trappy affair, but we thought it was grand. The children
dressed in their Sunday clothes for this was a special occasion.

The moment we walked in the store we could feel a buzz of excitement in the air. Santa was there! And the line to greet him was l---o---n---g. No one complained, for we all knew it was a treat to actually be able to sit on the old fellow's lap and tell him exactly what you wanted for Christmas.
When it was our turn, Doug (just 2) nodded politely, but he would have nothing to do with that white-haired old guy in the red suit. However, Bill stepped right up. From under his jacket, he unhooked his holster and guns and held them out. "I'll trade," he said. "My holster for a rifle."
Santa paused, and then he roared with laughter. Bill got to keep his holster and Santa came through. A rifle with Bill's name on it showed up under the tree.


The Christmas Mary was three, I told her that in March we were going to have another baby.

She was delighted and went about telling all her friends. "When our baby is born," she said, "we'll lay him in the hay." I tried explaining that when our baby came, if it was a girl the nurse would lay her in a pretty pink basket. If it was a boy, the basket would be blue. But she could not be pursuaded.
She gathered all the Christmas ribbons, added a bunch of her own, and made a little manger in the dolly bed Boppie had made for her. Daily, Mary laid her baby in the "hay," practicing for the day when we brought our real baby home.

The Christmas John was five, he woke up about 3:00 on Christmas morning and came to my bedside. I was sound asleep for his father and I had only been in bed about an hour. (Sometimes it takes parents a while to get things ready so Santa can come.) "Can we get up?" he whispered.

"No!" I said. "It's the middle of the night. Go back to bed." He did.

Finally 6:00 arrived and John again came to me. "The houselights are on across the street," he said. "I think Santa's been here."

We all got up and sure enough, Santa had arrived. The cookies were gone. The mug was empty, and boxes and toys were stacked under the tree. Long after we'd opened our gifts, I asked John if he'd gone back to sleep. "No," he said. "I just lyed there."

He was one sleepy kid.

My last story happened when Doug was five. He and his best friend were in the back seat of the

car having a conversation. They didn't realize I could hear them. I wasn't snooping, not really, but I couldn't help overhearing.

Doug's friend said, "Do you still believe in Santa?"

Doug shook his head. "No, but my Mom does."

I fear he's right. I still do! Happy New Year!!!